


White Light

by seimaisin



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alphabet Meme, Angst, F/M, Gen, Grey Wardens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 14,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of 26 (or so) ficlets about Bethany Hawke's life as a Grey Warden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Ansburg

**Author's Note:**

> If you think you've seen this before, you have - I somehow managed to delete the first instance of this collection, so I'm reposting!
> 
> Title is from Jess Penner's [White Light](http://jesspenner.com/lyrics/#whitelight).

It takes four days for Stroud and the Wardens to reach Ansburg. Four days, during which Bethany continues to die slowly. Luckily, she doesn't remember much about those days – she remembers crying, Stroud carrying her when she couldn't walk, one of the men muttering "are we sure she's worth it?" _No_ , she wants to tell him. No, _I'm not, please leave me to die._

Her voice doesn't work very well, though, and she can't plead with them. So she makes it to Ansburg, and undertakes the Joining.

Everyone is shocked when she survives. Including Bethany.

She confines herself to the Warden compound for several weeks – recovering, she tells herself, but in reality she's simply going through the motions. She survives slithering nightmares every night, wakes up in a cold sweat. She goes through the required daily exercise regimen, and tries to ignore the whispers that drift just outside of her awareness. She goes to the library and stares unseeing at the Warden histories and political treatises Stroud assigns to her after a conversation at dinner one night. “The Margrave wants to visit next week,” Stroud tells the collected Wardens, “we’ll have to pull out all the stops.”

“Who’s the Margrave?” Bethany asks, without thinking, and ends up with a dozen pairs of eyes trained on her in disbelief. “I’ve never been to Ansburg before,” she says defensively, when someone at the end of the table snickers.

"You need to know what's going on outside of Fereldan and Kirkwall," Stroud tells her, and suddenly she finds herself in possession of books about the Free Marches and Orlais and the Anderfels. _I don't want to know anything about the political structure of the Anderfels_ , she thinks, shoving the books across the table and hiding her face in her hands.

… and suddenly, she’s a much younger girl, scared and petulant and crossing her arms while her father sits in a chair and tells her she’s going to have to start waking up early so they can go outside and practice her magic before anyone else is awake. “I don’t want to do magic!” she cries. “I want to be normal!”

Her father’s gaze doesn’t soften. “You’re not normal. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you’ll never be normal again.”

“It’s not fair!”

“I know. But life is rarely fair.” At that, her father gets up and puts his arms around her shoulders. All these years later, she can remember the smell of his tunic, freshly washed, and the way he sighed when she pressed her face into his shoulder. Here, in the echoing Warden library, Bethany desperately wishes for her father to somehow appear in front of her, so she can feel his arms around her just one more time. 

But, life isn’t fair. And she’s no longer a child. _I'm a grown woman. A competent, intelligent woman who can take care of herself._ Even if she is permanently tainted. She has to live with nightmares now. She has to kill darkspawn on a regular basis. And she has to know more about the world than just what was in the stories Varric made up to entertain them on quiet Sundays in Lowtown. 

Once upon a time, she crawled out of her bed on a dark, chilly morning to stand outside and listen to her father lecture her about primal magic. 

Today, she leaves the library and finds Stroud sitting in one of the common rooms. “Tell me,” she says, sitting down across from him, “why is the ruler of Ansburg called Margrave?”


	2. B is for Bitter

They've been on a foray into a section of the Deep Roads that runs under southern Antiva for several weeks. It's a nasty, tedious mission, through tunnels and thaigs that haven't seen dwarves for at least a century, all to chase the rumor of one of the new kind of talking darkspawn the Wardens in Ferelden have been talking about. They find nothing more interesting than an emissary, however – which, to Bethany's thinking, is more than interesting enough. If by 'interesting', you mean 'terrifying and frequently painful.'

By the time she gets back to the Warden compound, Bethany is fairly sure she'll never get the smell of darkspawn or spider guts out her armor. Or her hair. She's traded the armor for a robe and is about to head out to the bathing room when she hears a voice in the hallway. "Hawke! A letter came for you last week!"

There are only a handful of people Bethany ever gets mail from. In her current mood, she doesn't really want to hear from any of them. "Put it on my bed," she calls back. "I'll read it when I'm clean."

Later, with her hair wet and still smelling vaguely sour, she curls up on her bed and reads about her mother's plans to decorate the newly-reclaimed Amell estate. _I found a crate of my father's old books in the cellar, and it's gone a long way to making the library look less pitiful. And I've been keeping the Hightown merchants busy looking for furniture that reminds me of what was here when I was a child. A couple of pieces I've already found, I'm fairly sure they're the actual pieces I once used. I'm sure the previous occupants sold everything they could remove from the premises._

 _Your sister isn't very concerned with the decorating_ , the letter continues, _as she's just become half owner of the Hanged Man, with Varric. It's not the business investment I would have made, of course, but at least it's always likely to generate a profit, if the number of drunks in Lowtown were any indication. She and Varric were here last night, drinking and pouring over financial ledgers. It was a lot of talk about operating budgets and restructuring of resources that I would find really tedious, but they seemed to be having the time of their lives._

Bethany flings the letter to the end of her bed without reading the rest. "I'm so glad," she mutters, "that Marian is having the time of her life." _While I'm here, smelling of darkspawn and hearing imaginary voices_. She’s never seen the mansion, but she can just imagine Marian and Varric sitting around, passing a wine bottle back and forth and laughing. Laughing, celebrating a business deal while she was trudging through the underground muck …

“This does me no good,” she says aloud, glaring at the offending paper before standing up. She ties her wet hair back and – as her stomach reminds her she has yet to eat that day - sets off to the kitchen in search of a meal. 

While she sits at a counter, poking at a bowl of soup, the door to the kitchen swings open. “Ah, I see I’m not the only one with an empty stomach,” Faren says, squeezing her shoulder as he walks past. When she doesn’t answer, he frowns at her over the bowl he’s pulling out of a cabinet. “Something wrong?”

Bethany sighs. “No.”

“That, my dear, is a load of nug shit.” Faren spoons himself some soup and sits next to her. Somehow, he smells less like darkspawn guts than she does - she nearly changes the subject and asks what kind of soap he uses, but he continues before she can open her mouth. “You were laughing at my offensive jokes on the way back home, so I don’t suspect you’re brooding about the mission. So tell me, what’s putting a frown on that lovely face?”

She closes her eyes and, after a moment, leans against his shoulder. Faren leans in just slightly, just enough to let her feel a comforting pressure against her side. “It’s dumb,” she says. “I know it’s dumb, and it’ll sound even more dumb if I say it out loud.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m tone-deaf to dumb, isn’t it?” He pushes against her shoulder. “Out with it.”

Bethany pauses, but eventually rubs her eyes and sighs again. “My family moved into a mansion in Kirkwall. It’s an old family home, my mother was petitioning the Viscount for ownership before I … left. She and my sister live there now, and they’re so happy, and …” Bethany looks up at Faren, whose eyes are so kind, and blurts, “I think I hate them for it. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“Why?”

“Why do I hate them?”

“No, why shouldn’t you?” When Bethany wrinkles her nose at him, Faren gestures with his spoon. “Let me tell you something. I chose to be a Warden - I was the fourth son of an Antivan noble, and I was bored senseless. So when the Wardens came through town looking for recruits, I gave it all up and took the Joining - much to the confusion of the rest of my family, let me tell you. Generally, I don’t regret it. But every once in a while, when I think about my brothers and their lovely wives …” He winks at Bethany. “And even lovelier mistresses, and all their fine wine and parties and feather beds, I get angry. Angry at myself, sometimes, for giving it up, but I also get angry at them for not missing me at all. Is it rational? No. Do I care? No.” 

“How do you deal with it?”

“I don’t know. I just do.” Faren reaches a hand up and runs a thumb over Bethany’s cheek. “You didn’t choose this. So go ahead, be bitter and angry. Hate your family. It’s only natural.”

“I don’t like hating them. It makes me feel even worse.”

“Because you feel guilty. That’s the problem. You don’t have anything to feel guilty about. You’ve been forced into a life you don’t want. Anger and hatred is part of the package.” Faren smiles. “You don’t have to be a saint, love. Saints are incredibly boring.”

“I guess …”

“You know what will make you feel better?” 

“What?”

“Tell me something awful about your family. Something someone did that always made you crazy.”

Bethany thinks for a few minutes. “Well, there was this boy I liked, back in Lothering. I tried not to tell anyone about it, because I knew Marian and Carver would tease me something awful. But I guess Marian figured it out, because one day, I saw her talking to the boy I liked. When they saw me coming, they both started laughing, and I was mortified …”

She spends an hour telling Faren about all of Marian’s faults. To her surprise, it does make her feel better. Good enough, anyway, that when she goes back to her room, she can fold her mother’s letter and put it away in her trunk without feeling the urge to tear it up. It’s a victory, of sorts.


	3. C is for Calling

Bethany has been in Ansburg for nearly two years when Faren starts to fade.

Somewhere in her mind, she’s known his time was limited. He joined the Wardens when he was eighteen; Bethany doesn’t know his age, but he’s old enough to have more gray hair than black, and the lines and circles around his eyes tell the story of too many years listening to the darkspawn murmur in his ear. But his energy and humor makes him seem far younger than he is most days, so she’s not prepared when he sits down at an informal meeting and says, “It’s time.”

There are expressions of sympathy and regret around the table, but no one protests. “We’ll plan our trip to Orzammar,” Stroud says, before continuing with regular business. 

Bethany doesn’t hear anything else. When the meeting breaks up, she grabs Faren’s arm. “Are you sure?” 

His smile is just a little smaller, a bit more distracted than usual - has it been like this recently? Bethany can’t remember noticing. “I’ve been hearing the song for a couple months,” he confesses. “It’s keeping me awake at night. I can’t remember the last time I slept more than an hour at a stretch.”

“Oh.” She’s heard the song - the taint’s siren call. It beckoned to her back in the Deep Roads, two years ago, as Marian and Anders dragged her away from her death. It’s terrifying and haunting and brittle and beautiful, and she spent hours senselessly begging her sister to make it stop, some way, any way.

(Marian refused. Bethany is still not sure she’s ready to forgive her.)

“Indeed.” He looks away from her. “I’m not ready,” he confesses softly. “I don’t want to die. But I can’t live like this. And no one else should have to live with me like this.”

“I haven’t noticed you acting any different.”

He looks back and finally focuses his gaze on her face. His smile looks more like himself. “I’ve been working really hard to be normal.” The smile fades. “I can’t do it any more.”

Bethany swallows the lump in her throat. “I’ll miss you.”

“All a man can ask is that a beautiful woman remember him fondly.” He pulls Bethany into his arms for a quick, hard hug. “Be well, my dear. You have years left. Live them.”

They leave Bethany behind when they go to Orzammar. Truth be told, she’s grateful. But the night they leave, she curls up in her bed and cries. For Faren, but more selfishly, for the reminder that the song still waits for her.


	4. D is for Dance

Bethany suspects Stroud asks her to go to the Margrave’s ball only because she’s currently the only female in residence at the Warden compound. That’s okay. Whatever the reason, it means she gets to buy a fancy dress and be a normal person for a night. It’s an opportunity she can’t pass up.

Honestly, when they walk into the ballroom at the Margrave’s Keep, for a moment Bethany feels like she’s in some storybook from her childhood - one of the ones where a servant girl becomes a princess for a night by some magical force or another, falls in love with a prince and ends up living happily ever after. But then Stroud leans over and murmurs to her, “Remember, you’re representing the Wardens tonight. We need the Margrave’s support for our Keep’s expansion.” 

_Definitely not a children’s story_. More like a political drama, mixed with some military action - the kind of story Carver always preferred. Though, the idea of Carver all dressed up and making nice with the Ansburg nobles is amusing enough that Bethany has a genuine smile on her face when she’s formally introduced to the Margrave and his son. 

The son - Hendric - takes Bethany’s hand and bows. “May I have this dance, my lady Warden?”

It’s not quite a storybook moment. Hendric is slightly shorter than Bethany, and looks a little puffy besides, but he has a kind smile and looks honestly delighted when Bethany agrees to be led out onto the dance floor. “I’m not really familiar with this dance,” she confesses when the music starts. “I apologize if I step on your toes.”

“That’s all right. I’m not a very good dancer myself.” He laughs. “We’ll just hope we’re both wearing sturdy enough shoes.”

They manage to begin just fine. Once they’ve caught the rhythm of the other people surrounding them, they’re able to converse. “I’m curious,” Hendric says, “how does a lovely woman like you end up a Grey Warden?”

Bethany’s not quite sure how to answer. This certainly isn’t the time to talk about traitorous dwarfs and rock wraiths and the feeling of death creeping into her blood. “It’s a long story,” she settles on, “and not necessarily a party sort of conversation.”

He flushes pink. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“No offense taken,” she assures him. “I haven’t been a Warden for very long,” she continues. “Just over a year.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Another question that can’t be answered honestly. _No, I hate it. I wish I’d died in the Deep Roads_. Only, that’s not quite true either - she doesn’t wish herself dead. She wishes her life had turned out differently, sometimes on a daily basis, and she hates the taint that oozes in her blood like a hallucinatory time bomb. But, she likes being useful; she likes being able to use her magic without fear of Templars, and she likes watching the people around her come to respect her abilities more and more every day. 

Bethany glances around the room. If things had been different - if she’d made it home, if she lived in the mansion with her mother and sister and enjoyed the spoils of their expedition - would she be like the people here? Would she have gone to balls in Kirkwall, danced and flirted and gossiped with the rest of the Hightown nobles? They’d certainly found enough in the Deep Roads that, with careful management, she wouldn’t have had to work, not for a long time. So, theoretically, she could have lived the life of a young noblewoman, free of obligations.

Was that even something she wanted?

Her mind’s immediate answer surprises her. _Maker, no. I’d rather be useful._

“I don’t think being a Warden is necessarily something you enjoy,” Bethany answers slowly, “but I enjoy the results of what I do.”

“Fair enough.” Hendric smiles, just before they collide with another couple. They both blurt out hasty apologies, but when they look at each other, they both burst out into giggles. “Perhaps,” Hendric says, “we’re better off sitting this one out. But will you allow me to get you a drink?”

“I’d like that.” 

Hendric leads her across the floor, and Bethany leaves the dancing - and some of her storybook fantasies - behind. She feels just a little bit lighter for it.


	5. E is for Emissary

They're fighting in a tight corridor, and the darkspawn outnumber the four Wardens by at least three bodies – which is why, Bethany figures, she doesn't see the hurlock emissary until a bolt of lightning comes out of nowhere to knock Stroud off his feet.

She doesn't stop to think. She sets the hurlock directly in front of her on fire; when it stumbles out of the way, she leaves it for one of her companions to finish off. Instead, she pushes past it so that no one stands between her and the emissary, standing a short way down the corridor. It's chuckling, in that horrible gurgling darkspawn way that Bethany doesn't think will ever stop making her shudder. But even as she shakes it off, she's calling ice into her hands. "Oh no you don't, you disgusting bastard," she mutters under her breath before raising her hands to push the icy cold towards him.

She's fast, but not quite fast enough to finish the spell and call up a ward before his answering hex skims across her skin. _Horror_ , her mind recognizes a split second before the nightmares start to tug at her consciousness. Bethany shakes her head vigorously. "Not good enough," she shouts. She lives with darkspawn nightmares every day. If there's one advantage to the taint, it's that it makes it that much easier to ignore the creeping ick that now wants to take over. She'll pay for it later – the nightmares can only be delayed, not banished completely – but she's able to put the hex's effects into a corner of her mind and shut an imaginary door. She calls up all her remaining mana and looks back at the emissary.

Bethany feels her lips stretch into something that resembles a smile. She knows it's not an attractive expression when she can actually see the emissary take a small step backward. His momentary confusion gives her the split second she needs.

Her spirit bolt knocks him onto his back. She doesn't hesitate – the moment she sees him start to fall, she sprints forward and unsheathes her dagger from her belt. When she falls to her knees and buries it in his chest, she can feel her own lingering magic vibrating into the hilt. The body stops twitching long before the magic in the dagger does.

A moment later, Bethany hears a shuffling gait behind her – it could be an injured compatriot, if only it wasn't moving so fast. There's no time to stand up, and taking the emissary out has pretty much drained her. She has just enough mana left to turn around and throw a weak Winter's Grasp at the approaching hurlock. It doesn't freeze him, but simply makes him pause for a second. Bethany reaches to pull the dagger out of the emissary's chest, but before she can wrap her fingers around it, the hurlock lets out a strangled cry ... just before its head rolls off its shoulders and toward the cavern wall. When the rest of it collapses, Bethany sees Amaya standing behind, her blade dripping with dark blood. "Thanks," Bethany says.

"Don't mention it." Amaya reaches down to help Bethany to her feet. "You apparently took care of the hard part," she adds, gesturing to the emissary.

They make their way over to Stroud, who is sitting propped up on the wall, groaning. "That was dumb," he says when he sees Bethany approaching. "I should have known there was an emissary around somewhere."

"Oh, so your taint is more special than mine, that you're supposed to pick individual types of darkspawn out of a whole crowd?" She makes a face at him as she bends down to check his injuries.

It makes him laugh, which was part of her intent. "No, we've just been too lucky by half down here. We were due to run into one of those blighted bastards." He waves Bethany off. "I'm fine. Just give me a health poultice, don't waste your mana."

"I don't have any left anyway, so it's good you don't need me."

Stroud raises an eyebrow. He glances down the corridor to the emissary's body, then back at Bethany. "I'd hardly say that."

The implied compliment makes her smile, and keeps the hex-spawned nightmares at bay for just a little bit longer.


	6. F is for Ferelden (and Food)

When the ship docks in Amaranthine, Bethany takes a deep breath. The air smells different here than in the cities of the Free Marches – she would call it "earthy," but Cornell, standing next to her, makes a face. "It smells like horse shit. Maker, I hate Ferelden."

She exchanges a look with Stroud, who just smirks. They've been saddled with escorting Cornell, a Warden from Weisshaupt, who is apparently meant to be stationed at Vigil's Keep for reasons Bethany hasn't yet been made privy to. Stroud, however, has mostly seemed amused by the whole thing ever since they met the man. "I've been to Amaranthine," he told Bethany before they boarded the ship. "Watching him try to deal with that bunch is going to be more entertainment than we've had in ages."

The Wardens of Ferelden are something of a legend around the Marches – or a joke, depending on who you ask. Bethany has heard that they're incompetent, that they're all criminals and outcasts, that six of them held off a week-long darkspawn siege without any outside help, that the Hero of Ferelden created some kind of new breed of Warden by making them all drink the blood of the archdemon ... and those are just the more reasonable tales. Bethany's not sure what to believe. It all sounds ridiculous, but, well, she once escaped Ferelden with the help of a legendary witch who could turn into a dragon, so she doesn't exactly have room to discount ridiculous stories.

Once they're off the ship, the three Wardens – dressed in civilian clothing for their journey – seem to be lost in a sea of people and moving crates. Stroud scans the crowd, and so does Bethany, though she wouldn't know their escort unless they happen to be wearing Warden armor, so she's not sure why she bothers. Cornell, for his part, seems to be looking around at the chaos in disgust. When his attention is elsewhere, Bethany rolls her eyes at him. She looks back out at the crowd – only to find a man standing directly in front of her, gaze focused on her and Stroud. She only barely contains her gasp of surprise.

Stroud sees him, and grins. "Howe. It's good to see you again."

The man takes Stroud's outstretched hand. "You as well. I hope your journey was pleasant?"

"Uneventful, which is all we can ask."

Stroud starts forward without introducing anyone, which Bethany knows by now is meant to needle Cornell, not slight her in any way. Still, the man raises an eyebrow at her as he falls into step next to her. "I'm Bethany," she says.

He smiles and inclines his head. "Nathaniel."

Cornell takes that as his cue to take over. "Will we be meeting the Commander shortly?" he asks, without preamble.

"No," Nathaniel replies, "the Commander is elsewhere at the moment."

Cornell frowns. "Then who's in charge here?"

"Of the Wardens? At the moment, that would probably be me." Nathaniel mutters something else under his breath that sounds a lot like "Maker help me" to Bethany. He ignores Cornell's disbelieving glare and steps forward to converse with Stroud.

Bethany walks along behind Stroud and Nathaniel in silence, taking in the city of Amaranthine, until she feels Cornell stop and turn away. “Andraste’s tits,” he swears, “seriously, what is that smell?” When Bethany turns, she finds Cornell standing at a nearby food vendor’s table. She makes her way over in time to see him wrinkle his nose at a selection of meat pies. “Are these made of dog meat?” he asks the woman behind the table. Without waiting for a response, he turns his back on the stand, crossing his arms over his chest. “Honestly,” he says, more than loud enough for the woman to hear, “this is all just disgusting.”

Bethany is mortified. But she plasters a smile on her face and leans close enough to sniff one of the pies. “Oh!” she says, honestly delighted. “This smells just like something they used to serve at the tavern in Lothering. It makes me think of home.” She doesn’t know precisely what kind of meat it is, but she recognizes the scent of the spices, as well as a particular nectar used in the baking of the crust. It reminds her of her father, of sitting next to him while listening to a traveling minstrel entertain half the town. “You’re not from around Lothering, are you?” she asks the woman.

The woman gives her a genuine smile. “No, but my mother was from Redcliffe. I learned this recipe from her.”

“It really does smell wonderful,” Bethany says. She digs a few coins out of her purse and picks up one of the pies. When Cornell gives her a look, she smiles sweetly. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Aren’t you hungry?”

Cornell just rolls his eyes and walks away, toward the city gate. When Bethany turns, pie in hand, she sees Stroud and Nathaniel standing a short distance away, both watching her. Stroud is smirking, but Nathaniel is just looking at her curiously. She raises her chin, gives him what she hopes is a dignified look, and starts walking up the road. 

Stroud walks ahead to catch up with Cornell, but Nathaniel once again walks next to Bethany. When she dares another glance at him, the corners of his mouth are turned upwards. “Can I talk you into sharing?” he asks. “We have a decent journey ahead to the Keep, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast either.”

She laughs. “I think that can be arranged.” 

The air outside of the city gate smells of spices, meat, and good old-fashioned farming dirt. _It’s good to be home_ , Bethany thinks.


	7. G is for Ghosts

A few months after her Joining, Bethany starts dreaming of her father and Carver.

Not normal dreams – no recreations of their life in Lothering, or fantasies of having everyone alive and well and being a whole family once again. No, her father and brother show up on the edges of her darkspawn nightmares, the warriors they both were in life. She can feel them standing on either side of her on a desolate plain, with nothing but tainted monsters below as far as the eye can see. Carver brandishes a sword, and her father lights a fireball in his hand. They both wait, because this is Bethany's dream, and it's her job to fight her own monsters. They simply follow her lead, and make the nightmares just a tiny bit more bearable.

They don't always come to her. Most nights, she's on her own with the creeping whispers. She learns how to endure it, how to block it out sometimes, how to live on a few hours sleep and be grateful for it. But on the worst nights – the nights she can't make herself wake up, the nights she feels most lost and alone and ready to give in to her waiting death – they appear, and she remembers love. Love sustains her until she can open her eyes and face another day.

If anyone had asked – if she'd told anyone about her imaginary protectors – she would say that they're obviously figments of her imagination, images her subconscious brings up to remind her of when she felt the most safe, the most loved. There is no safety in her new life; there may be love, but it's a different sort of thing, the love of new friends and occasional lovers and faithful comrades-in-arms. The Wardens stand with her to face the darkspawn when she wakes. When her eyes close, however, she needs an entirely different sort of protection.

One night, three years after her Joining, she falls asleep only to find a darkspawn horde waiting for her. They fill the road leading out of Lothering, blocking her way to safety. She feels a familiar warmth on either side, can see the glint of blade and flame out of the corners of her eye. But this time, she senses a third presence, someone behind her. She turns to see her mother standing a few feet back, smiling at her. Suddenly, Bethany is filled with warmth – she may not have ever been a fighter, but no one in the world has ever loved more fiercely than Leandra Hawke, Bethany thinks. If love can be a shield, her mother has the ability to hold back every darkspawn in the Deep Roads. With a nod, Bethany turns back and charges the horde. Tonight, she feels like she can fell every last one of them.

When she wakes, her pillow is damp with tears. She doesn't quite know why.


	8. H is for Hands

“I really love your hands.”

Bethany frowns as Hendric laces his fingers through hers. “My hands? Out of all my body parts?”

“Well …” Hendric grins, looking slowly down Bethany’s naked body. She’s been with him enough that she doesn’t blush at the gaze; in fact, she wriggles and enjoys the way he unconsciously bites his lip as he looks back up at her face. “I admit, I’m fond of the entire package. But your hands are amazing.” 

“That’s … odd.”

“Why? Your hands can do amazing things. And I don’t,” he adds, raising an eyebrow, “mean any of the things we were just doing.”

She giggles. But she looks at her hand, the way her skin appears slightly gray next to his - at least, it does to her. Ansburg has sunlight much of the year, causing many of its residents to have a permanent golden glow. Hendric spends more time indoors than most - working with his father - so he’s relatively pale, but Bethany spends much of her time underground. It’s hard to be kissed by the sun when your whole purpose in life is to kill creatures who prefer to live in darkness.

“I’ve seen you heal,” Hendric continues. “That energy coming out of your hands … it takes my breath away.”

Yes, he’s seen Bethany heal; she’s accompanied him to a local clinic, a place his father sponsors. Cynically, she knows the Margrave pays for care for the poor to garner approval - the people of the Free Marches are known for rising up and deposing their leaders if they think they’re being treated unfairly. But Hendric still has a soft enough heart that he enjoys seeing happy endings. So does Bethany, quite frankly, which is why she goes to the clinic every once in a while to lend her meager healing skills. She’s not Anders, never will be, but she can close wounds and knit together simple broken bones. It’s enough for the battlefield, and it’s generally enough to make her feel good when she leaves the clinic.

Hendric has seen her do these things. But he’s never seen her set another living being on fire. He’s never seen her hands crackle with electricity, moments before she tosses a bolt at an enemy. He’s never seen her call a wall of ice with nothing but a thought and a flick of her wrist, never seen a man explode on Bethany’s whim. 

With any luck, he never will.

Bethany sighs. She pulls her hand from Hendric’s grasp and reaches over to cradle his cheek. The callouses on her fingertips scratch lightly against his skin. The hand that he brings down to stroke her side is soft and smooth, the hand of a nobleman. He leans into her touch, turning his head just enough to kiss her palm. “Thank you,” she says.

Someday, Hendric will marry a suitable woman - Bethany hopes she’s nice, at the very least, he deserves that much - and take over his father’s seat. His hands won’t stay so soft and clean then, she knows, at least not in a metaphorical sense. But chances are good that Bethany won’t be around to see that day. The Margrave is young and healthy, and could survive to rule Ansburg for another twenty years or more. Twenty years from now, Bethany could be …

… well, she doesn’t like to think about that.

Bethany leans over and kisses him gently. “I have to be back at the compound before dinner,” she says. “What do you say we make the most of our time?”

It’s a philosophy she’s trying to embrace in all things. Luckily, Hendric is all too willing to oblige.


	9. I is for Ice

Out of all her spells, Winter's Grasp is Bethany's favorite. There's a certain beauty to it, to watching something – or someone, more often – suddenly freeze solid, like an ice sculpture. For the few moments it lasts, Bethany feels like she's made a work of art. Which is weird, she supposes, considering that it usually ends in someone with a sword shattering the glass and the victim's skull. But it's a perfect metaphor for her whole life, she figures. Her only true skill is to kill people in a variety of horrible ways.

Bethany expresses this sentiment to several of the Fereldan Wardens one night during her second trip to Amaranthine, under the influence of some horrible brew provided by Oghren. "And what's wrong with that?" Sigrun asks, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Bethany's feet. "In our line of work, that's the best skill to have."

"Yeah, I know." Bethany sighs. "But I'd rather do good things, you know?"

"You do," Sigrun points out. "You kill darkspawn. Defend people."

"I know," Bethany repeats. She waves her hands in an ineloquent circle. "But I want to do beautiful things. Things that make people feel good. Things ..." Her brain is fuzzy with alcohol, so she spends a long moment searching for the right words. Finally, she settles on, "I wish I could create, instead of destroy."

The thought sticks with her through the rest of the night, and into the journey they begin the next morning. An idea occurs to her midday; when they finally camp for the evening, she finds a quiet spot away from the fire and starts experimenting.

After an hour or so, she sees a flickering shadow hover over her – Nathaniel, she sees when she turns around, carrying a small torch and staring at her curiously. "You missed dinner," he says. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. It's probably dumb." When Nathaniel simply raises an eyebrow and crouches next to her, she sighs and shows him the ball of ice laying on a cloth in front of her. “I was trying to sculpt it, I guess?” she admits, her face burning with embarrassment. “I’ve been trying to control my fire well enough to burn some designs into the ice, but mostly I’m just melting the damned thing.”

“That happens,” Nathaniel observes, “when you combine fire and ice.”

“I know, I know. I just … had an idea, I guess. To see what I could make.” With a blast of fire, Bethany melts the ice ball. “Stupid, I know.”

Nathaniel shrugs. “You never know what you can do unless you try.”

“And apparently, I can’t make ice sculptures.” Bethany sighs and stands up. “Is there anything left to eat?”

The next morning, Bethany wakes up to find a small pouch sitting next to the entrance of her tent. Inside, she finds a couple of small chisels. They draw a surprised laugh from her, and she sets off in search of Nathaniel. “Why,” she asks, as he packs up his tent, “did you have chisels with you?”

He looks up and grins. “They’re not chisels. Or at least, they weren’t until now.”

Bethany glances down at the small pieces of metal in her hand. When she realizes what they are, she laughs. “I guess the question then is, why do you have lockpicks?”

“Old habits die hard.” Nathaniel inclines his head at her. “Perhaps you’ll put them to better use, my lady.”

“Destroying blocks of ice, you mean?” But her cheeks warm at the honorific, and she turns away before she bites her lip. She takes a couple of steps before she turns back. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bethany doesn’t ever try to sculpt ice again, but she keeps the lockpicks.


	10. J is for Juxtapose

When she enters Kinloch Hold for the first time, Bethany expects to feel … well, different. This place had been the stuff of her nightmares for years, the silent, looming enemy she and her father were running from. She expects to feel out of place, at the very least, like she should run and hide somewhere far away.

She doesn’t really feel anything, though, when she walks into the Knight-Commander’s office. It’s just another new place, one of dozens she’s visited over the last few years. Knight-Commander Greagoir isn’t some kind of looming monster, simply a tired-looking man who greets the Wardens with a grunt. “You’ll want the guest quarters made up for you, I suppose.”

“No,” Stroud says, “we shouldn’t take up much of your time. Or Irving’s, as the case may be. We’re just looking for a particular spell book, and the Grand Enchanter pointed us here.”

Greagoir looks from Stroud to Bethany, taking in the staff strapped to her back. “We haven’t met.”

“No, Ser, we haven’t.” It’s strange, shaking hands with a Templar, knowing he knows who and what she is. But Greagoir treats her exactly like he treats Stroud - they’re an inconvenience, but not a danger. 

If there’s one thing she didn’t expect to feel here, it’s normal.

They meet the First Enchanter in the library. While he and Stroud exchange a story about an old mutual friend, Bethany takes the opportunity to wander. She’s never seen so many books about magic in one place - when she was a child, she had half a dozen books to study from, all of which her father took when he escaped the Circle. She had them all memorized within a year. It’s hard to find books on magic outside of Circles - not much call for them, not among the lawful - so she’s never had the chance to read more. Surely, she would be happy to spend a month in this library, devouring every book within her reach. 

Her gaze wanders from the bookshelves to a nearby table, where a young apprentice sits surrounded by books and discarded pieces of parchment. She seems like an earnest young girl, dark-haired and pink-cheeked, and for a moment, Bethany almost sees a ghost of a past self sitting at that table. How many hours did she spend copying spells from books until her father was satisfied that she’d memorized them? She remembers beautiful summer days - much like today - spent cooped up inside, staring at a blank page and chewing on the inside of her lip. The girl in front of her sighs and tugs on a strand of hair; Bethany’s hand mimics the gesture before she even realizes what she’s doing.

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, she thinks she might hear Marian and Carver playing somewhere almost out of her range of hearing. They’ll come home soon, she remembers, and tell her all about the stupid argument they had over a bet or some girl Carver likes. They won’t ask her about her studies, though. Bethany’s magic is something to ignore, because if her siblings pretend like it doesn’t exist, then they’re less likely to slip up and say something to the wrong person. She can talk about magic with her father, but those conversations are more lessons than anything.

Voices jar her out of her memory; Bethany opens her eyes to see two other young apprentices approaching the table. The girl turns and grins as her friends sit on either side of her. One grabs a piece of parchment and starts reading the spell details aloud in a high-pitched voice that Bethany suspects is an impression of one of their instructors. His companions laugh, and they start to discuss a spell that went horribly awry in one of their classes. 

Stroud calls her back over to speak with Irving, so Bethany leaves the chattering kids with a wistful glance. And wonders, not for the first time, if her freedom was really worth what it cost her.


	11. K is for Kirkwall

Kirkwall is burning.

They see the fires as their ship closes in on the dock. The captain pulls up short, while they’re still too far away for Bethany to make out anything happening on shore. “I’m not landing there,” he tells Stroud. “I like my ship too much to let it burn.”

“Maybe we can go on,” Bethany suggests, “and land at Ostwick?” Her heart isn’t in the idea, though. Her heart is on the docks, inside the city, whether she wants it to be or not.

Stroud shakes his head. “We don’t have time. And Ostwick is too far out of our way.”

They’re heading north and west, to a place on the border of Nevarra and Tevinter that Bethany had never heard of, prior to meeting the Fereldan Warden-Commander. For a while, she’d suspected that Stroud chose Kirkwall as their landing port solely for Bethany’s benefit; she should have known better, because he never does anything for personal reasons. But, as if he can read her mind, he turns to Bethany when he next speaks. “We’ll have to get through the city as quickly as possible. Whatever’s happening, unless it involves darkspawn, it doesn’t concern us.”

_It doesn’t concern us_. Bethany repeats that to herself while Stroud argues with the captain. Finally, the man allows them to have one of his small transport boats to row themselves to shore - it will barely fit the Wardens, but they make do. Bethany sits in the middle of the boat and watches the chaos grow until her vision is filled with fire and debris and raging Qunari.

_Marian lives in Hightown_ , Bethany tells herself. _Maybe she’s out of the way_. She almost laughs aloud at the thought. Her sister, sit out a fight like this? Only if she was no longer breathing. At that thought, Bethany feels a tightening in her chest. “Please be breathing,” she murmurs quietly.

Stroud looks back at her. “We can’t stop,” he reminds her.

“I know.”

Of course, they have to stop when they’re attacked by Qunari.

Bethany remembers the first Qunari she ever saw - the one in Lothering, the one who killed Alia and her family. That one had seemed so frightening, when she ventured close enough to see him in his cage. Now, faced with a half dozen Qunari warriors brandishing swords, that solitary man - if one can think of the Qunari as ‘men’ - seems almost harmless in her memory. None of these hulking brutes will stick around to submit to punishment, she knows that for certain. If they have their way, no one will remain to administer any punishment anyway.

They fight their way off the docks and into Lowtown, where the destruction is even worse. When Stroud looks at her, Bethany points to the east side of town. “Over there,” she yells over the screams. There’s an alleyway that leads to a road out of town near Gamlen’s house, she remembers taking it many times on their way to Sundermount. They'll have to circle around the city, which will take twice as long, but they'll be out of the fighting, Bethany hopes. They pass by the alienage - which is blocked by burning debris, and Bethany hopes the elves aren't just trapped in there with raging Qunari – and run up the once-familiar passage to the slums. Unfortunately, there's a large band of Qunari waiting for them; they have a woman Bethany vaguely recognizes on the ground, while her young son brandishes a sword too large for him. He's backed up against the wall, and is probably about two seconds away from dying horribly.

Bethany flings a fireball at the Qunari before she can think. If Stroud is mad, he can go to hell.

The fight that ensues is easier than Bethany expected it to be – maybe she's getting used to darkspawn, and that's a frightening thought. But 'easier' doesn't mean simple. It takes a lot of mana, she finds, to stop a creature as large as a Qunari warrior in its tracks. But just when she thinks about going for one of the lyrium potions in her pack, she turns to see a Qunari frozen solid a few feet from her, sword raised high. She blinks. She hasn't used Winter's Grasp in a few minutes, and she certainly hadn't been throwing spells in this direction.

She looks beyond the frozen warrior, and spots a familiar ragged feathered coat. Anders. Which means …

Yes. Right there, in the middle of the worst of the battle, dark hair and daggers flying. Marian.

Bethany's heart clenches, but she's too well trained to pause. When she sees the pulsing glow of lyrium at Marian's back, she turns away from the main melee to focus on the Qunari at the fringes. Marian and Fenris can handle anything. And Aveline – yes, Aveline is here, slashing her way through the opposite side of the square.

For a moment, Bethany feels like the last three years have been a bad dream. She's in Kirkwall, fighting at her sister's side. Everything is fine. Well, except for the Qunari.

But then, as she pulls a bottle of lyrium from her pack, she sees her blue and silver armor and the illusion is broken. It's not fine. The Deep Roads, the Wardens … Mother. It all happened, it's all her reality. This world, these people, none of them belong to her anymore. Not even Marian.

The lyrium is a sharp, shimmering taste that burns her throat. It's easier to blame the trouble she has swallowing on that. Tears are a weakness, one she cannot afford. Especially not right now.

With a shout, she raises her staff and calls her power. None of this may belong to her anymore, but by the Maker, she'll still defend it while she can.


	12. L is for Luck

Everyone tells her she’s lucky to have survived. Survived the taint, survived the Joining. And now, survived a dragon’s claw embedded in her torso. Bethany has been bedridden for a week, even after the healers at the Circle in Qarinus fixed most of the physical damage. There are some things not even the best healer can help, and the pain that accompanies muscles and internal organs repairing themselves is something she must endure. 

“How is this luck?” Bethany asks Stroud. He’s been surprisingly attentive while she recovers, spending an hour or so each day by her bedside. She’s not sure if he’s asking her for opinions on their mission in Tevinter because he actually wants her input, or just to distract her, but she’s grateful nonetheless.

“You could be dead,” he points out.

“I don’t honestly see where the advantage is,” she mutters, shifting her sitting position as a cramp shoots up her side.

Stroud raises an eyebrow. “You still have a death wish, after all this time?”

“I don’t have a death wish, I just -”

“You do.” Stroud leans forward in his chair. “Otherwise, why would you charge into the thick of a battle with a high dragon?”

“You and Petra would be dead right now if I hadn’t.”

“You could have healed us both from up the hill. But you chose to come down within the dragon’s reach. Why?”

Bethany opens her mouth to respond, but she has no words that don’t prove his point. Her healing skills aren’t the best, but they’ve improved over the last few years, and healing Stroud and Petra from a distance wouldn't have been a challenge. She should have stayed at the top of the hill, where the dragon's claws couldn't reach her. But she hadn't. And there had been an exhilaration in the experience, she admits to herself. When she'd seen the dragon lunge for her, she'd felt... relief. 

"I don't want to die," she says slowly. "But I don't know that I want to live long enough to feel the taint run through my blood. Not again."

Stroud doesn't look surprised. He sits back and looks at the floor, elbows resting on his knees, silent for a long moment. When he looks back up at her, he fixes her with a thoughtful stare. "Do you still wish I hadn't taken you? That I'd refused your sister, left you to die?" 

The question surprises Bethany. Not the thought itself - she's asked herself the same question at least once a week for more than four years. She's simply surprised Stroud would ask it now. The answer, however, has only become more complicated over the years. "I used to," she says. "But now? I can't regret helping people. And we've helped people over the last few years, haven't we?"

"Yes, we have." He pauses. "Have I ever told you about my Joining?"

"No." They haven't talked much about personal things - in fact, Bethany can't remember ever hearing about Stroud's life prior to the Wardens. 

"I chose to join the Wardens. In Orlais, it's considered an honor. Not one that everyone wants, mind you, but if you're a warrior with a certain kind of romanticism..." One side of Stroud's mouth turns upward. "The Wardens don't discourage the fantasy. It would cut down on their recruitment numbers."

Bethany chuckles. "I think I know what you mean. My brother Carver - I think he might have chosen this, if he'd had the chance. It would have suited him." There's still an ache in her chest, when Carver crosses her mind, but it's dulled to an almost pleasant reminder these days. 

"It suits me. I was thrilled to be chosen; even after the Joining, knowing what nightmares bring to us, I still considered it an honor. One of my compatriots, though, did not. Only two of us survived the Joining, and my fellow new Warden hated himself once it was done. He thought he should have been told about the sacrifices - about the nightmares, the Calling, all the awful things we face. But if we'd been told, would we have done it? I don't know. If I'd been told I would lose my mind after twenty or so years, would I have chosen to go join the royal guard instead? Become a Templar? I don't know. If we were told, how many Wardens would there actually be?"

Stroud sighs. "We saw what happens when there are too few Wardens - look at Ferelden, still Blighted after half a decade. They'll be recovering for years to come. And this was a short Blight, by historical standards. I don't regret becoming a Warden. But I still remember what it felt like to have those first few nightmares, how it felt to be told that the voice whispering in your head was real. I regret, sometimes, taking a person who didn't choose any part of this life. I've wondered - if your sister hadn't been involved, would you have chosen death for yourself?"

"Yes," Bethany answers, without hesitation. "I would have. But honestly...” She pauses. “I can't regret living now, not entirely. I may welcome death if it comes for me, but I don't regret the life I've lived." The words sound new to her own ears; to state it aloud makes the sentiment real. 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Stroud’s hand rests on Bethany’s briefly - just a half a moment, and then he stands up. “Don’t hurry your death along,” he says, looking away from her. “It comes for us all, eventually.” 

After he’s gone, Bethany thinks maybe her luck is in the company she’s kept, rather than the life she’s been given.


	13. M is for Marian

_[found on a crumpled up piece of paper in the corner of a now-abandoned bunk at the Warden compound in Ansburg]_

Dear Marian -

I just received your letter. By the date, I see you wrote it nearly a year ago, but I haven’t been in Ansburg for a long time. I’m glad to hear everyone survived the Qunari attack - I’ve been thinking about all of you. Your new title has spread across the world - I even heard of it in Tevinter. “Champion of Kirkwall” - deserved, I have no doubt. They say you fought the Arishok in a one-on-one duel. Only you, dear sister. I’m glad I wasn’t there. I might have had a heart attack. 

You sound lonely. It’s funny, I’ve never thought of you as lonely. You’ve always been surrounded by people. You’re always the one with all the friends, all the plans. Everyone loves Marian - that’s just always been a fact. But I guess you might be, now. Part of me wishes I could be there with you, to keep you company in that big, empty house. 

I used to think about it all the time, you know. What might have happened if I’d stayed home, let you go into the Deep Roads and make your fortune without me. Would I be there now? Would I have escaped the Templars for this long? Would I have been able to do something to save Mother? I don’t know. The questions used to drive me insane. So, eventually, I stopped asking them, except late at night when my brain didn’t want to face what waited for me in my dreams. There’s no right answer to those questions. There’s no answer at all. The only question that really matters is “so what do I do now?”

I can read those kinds of questions between the lines of your letter, Marian. You wonder if you could have done something differently, saved Mother, saved Kirkwall from the destruction it faced. Maybe you wonder if you could have saved me. I don’t know, we’ve never had the chance to talk about it. I won’t say I don’t still feel bitterness from time to time … but I know, in my head, that your only crime is wanting me to live. You couldn’t have known what living would entail. Maybe you don’t even know now. I’m sure Anders doesn’t talk about the Wardens much. It’s likely you don’t know about the voices that live in my head, or how it feels to have tainted blood pulsing in my veins. You probably don’t know that I probably won’t live to see fifty. If you had, would you still have chosen this for me?

… but that’s another impossible question, one I tried to stop asking myself a long time ago. You didn’t know. Neither did I. And now we both have to live with it, and just figure out what comes next.

You shouldn’t be lonely. You have people, friends - you always have. I can’t imagine that Varric and Isabela and Fenris aren’t still there, getting you drunk and killing Carta members with you. It may not be the same as family, but I’ve learned that you can’t be picky that way. You have to love the people you’re with, just as much as you love the people who used to be there. It’s hard, but I’m working on it. It’s harder still when you know that everyone you know will eventually be forced to surrender to the Taint. Like Stroud. He just told me that his Calling is near. He’s making plans to go to Orzammar. I think I might be the only person here in Ansburg that he’s told, which makes me feel honored in a very weird way. It means he trusts me, respects me, as I do him. I hate the thought of losing him, but at least I’ll have the chance to say goodbye. I’m going to Orzammar with him. I hear the dwarves throw a giant party before a Warden makes his final journey into the Deep Roads. It will be a story to tell later, that’s for sure. I just don’t want to think about it that hard yet.

I guess that leads to my other news - I’m staying in Ferelden, after I’m done in Orzammar. I’ve been granted a permanent transfer to Amaranthine. I know the Wardens there, and I feel more comfortable with them than I feel with anyone else but Stroud. I’m surprised Weisshaupt approved my request, but I’m not questioning it. I get to go home. Amaranthine is a little far from anywhere we ever lived, but it’s still Ferelden. Maybe I’ll be able to detour around Lake Calenhad and visit Lothering - or what’s left of it - on the way to Amaranthine. I think I’d like the chance to say a prayer for Father and Carver. To say goodbye, the way I never had the chance to. If I do, I’ll say a prayer for you, too. I know you miss them just as much as I do.

I do pray for you, dear sister. Every time I get to a Chantry, I pray for you. You may be the strongest person I’ve ever met, but even the biggest, strongest tree can bend and break in a storm. Don’t break, Marian. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. You’re all the family -

_[the writing breaks off. the bottom of the page is blank.]_


	14. N is for Nathaniel

Bethany gets her own bedroom at Vigil's Keep. "We've lost some people recently," Sigrun tells her, in a matter-of-fact tone. "And we like you better than the people from Weisshaupt, so you should claim one before any of them get here." 

She's only too happy to oblige. The room she ends up with, she's told later, is the one that was once occupied by the elven mage who joined the Wardens back when the Keep was first transformed - the one who, as far as Bethany has been able to figure, disappeared into thin air one day. Apparently, some of the Wardens think anything having to do with Velanna is bad luck, but Bethany doesn't mind in the least. To have a bed she's not afraid of rolling off in the middle of the night, a small wardrobe to store her (meager) belongings, someplace she can retreat to and close the door and not see anyone ... it's more than she's had, well, ever. And it goes a long way toward making Amaranthine feel more like home than any place she's been since Lothering.

There's a hierarchy at Vigil's Keep - it's just a much looser one than Bethany experienced at any other Warden compound. Elsewhere, the compound has only one or two actual bedrooms; one for the local commander, one for important guests. Everyone else is expected to sleep in the barracks, no matter age or rank. The keep, however, was a family's residence until very recently, and most of the bedrooms are still used as such. The master suite is still reserved for the Commander, even though no one (except Bethany, but she's under strict orders not to mention that) has seen him in over a year. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Sigrun sleeps in one of the old servant's rooms; it's small, but its position at the top of the stairs is a tactical advantage, per Sigrun. "If something goes wrong, I'd rather be able to move quickly, instead of waiting for everyone down the hall to move their asses." Bethany can't argue with the logic.

Oghren, meanwhile, doesn't have a room at all - he prefers bunking with the soldiers and new Warden recruits. Bethany has slept in that barrack in the past, and has experienced Oghren's gleeful wake-up calls. They usually involve a pot stolen from the kitchens and a dagger slammed repeatedly against the side most likely to echo. She's more than happy to leave the newer recruits to Oghren's tender mercy. Most of the rest of the bedrooms are occupied by the Keep's staff - the seneschal, Mistress Woolsey, whichever mage the Circle has sent most recently to handle enchantments. Wade and Herren, she finds, have a surprisingly large suite right next to Wade's forge, while the rest of the Keep's merchants share a small bunkhouse on the edge of the soldiers' barracks. 

And then there's Nathaniel. Who, Bethany is told, sleeps in the same rooms he had as a child, at the opposite end of the hall from her bedroom. And if Bethany has a rather personal interest in Nathaniel's sleeping arrangements ... well, she's only admitted it to herself just yet.

Life at Vigil's Keep isn't easy, not by a long shot. Ferelden is still fighting off the last of the Blight, and the Deep Roads passages between Amaranthine and Orzammar are still teeming with darkspawn. It's rare that everyone is at the Keep at the same time - but Bethany comes to treasure the days when all of the senior Wardens (a group in which she is included, to her constant surprise) are home. It reminds her of days spent at the Hanged Man in Kirkwall, days when she could walk in and find Varric and Isabela playing Wicked Grace back in Varric's suites, or Aveline and Fenris swapping battle stories over pints of horrible ale. The ale here at the Keep is thankfully better - an enterprising couple set up a tavern just outside the Keep's walls several years ago, and do brisk business with Wardens and soldiers stationed within. When she's in residence, Bethany knows she can find someone she knows - and more importantly, someone she's happy to drink with - inside the tavern on any given night. It's a comfort she didn't know she missed.

This night, Bethany ducks through the door of the tavern to find a raucous dance happening in the middle of the floor. Tables have been pushed aside, and half a dozen couples are laughingly walking through the steps of a popular country dance, while soldiers and barmaids holler encouragement from the sidelines. Smiling, she pushes her way past the audience to the bar - where Nathaniel sits, elbows leaning on the bar, watching the dancing with a grin. His smile widens when he sees Bethany, and he holds out a hand to indicate the seat beside him. "How was the trip?" he asks.

"Not too bad. No one had to be taken to the healer directly, so I consider it a success." She waves at the bartender, who knows her well enough to reach for the cask that contains her favorite ale. "We got overrun by a giant flock of deepstalkers at camp, though, which slowed us down. I think Oghren is back at the barrack shaking deepstalker guts out of his pack right now."

"Oh good," the bartender says, sliding a glass across the bar to Bethany. "That gives me some warning so I can go get a couple more casks from the cellar."

Bethany and Nathaniel both laugh, and the bartender moves away. "How have things been around here?"

Nathaniel makes a face. "You know," he said, "I was once supposed to inherit the arling from my father. Politics and paperwork would have been my whole life. I've spent enough time covering for the Commander here that I might actually be grateful the Blight intervened."

There's a hesitation before he mentions the Blight, and Bethany knows enough about his past to fill in the most likely blank. But he doesn't ever ask about her family, so she never asks about his. They're both happier that way. "You'd rather be ankle-deep in hurlock blood?" she asks.

"Sometimes." 

Bethany leans one arm on the bar. She’s close enough to him to smell sweat and leather - he’s wearing civilian clothing right now, but clearly, he hadn’t been spending _all_ his time inside, playing politics. "I'd suggest you and I trade jobs, but I don't think the Denerim noblility would take me very seriously. And I know the people at Weisshaupt don't. So I wouldn't be very good at being in charge, I don't think."

Nathaniel looks sideways at her. "You'd be surprised, I think. And so would they. You have a way of making a person want to follow you into the depths."

He sounds like he wants to say something else, but he cuts off suddenly and looks back at the dancers. Bethany blinks, and considers.

They watch the dancing for a while, mostly silent, except to occasionally poke one another to point out a dancer's drunken mistakes. The music is cheerful, the laughter bright; the ale warms her belly and bolsters her courage. If there's one thing she's learned over the years, it's that her life is too short to wait for anything. So, after finishing the last of her glass, she slides off the stool. When Nathaniel turns to her, Bethany gestures to the door. "I think it's time for me to get reacquainted with my bed. I've missed it."

He laughs. "That's the one part of being stuck here at the Keep I don't regret."

"Lucky." She takes a deep breath - she's not used to being the one to initiate this part. But, short life, and all that. "You know," she says, low enough that Nathaniel has to lean close to hear her. "I wouldn't mind company, if you were interested."

His eyebrows raise; he's silent long enough that Bethany's cheeks burn, and she turns away. "Good night."

She only makes it two steps before she feels a hand on her shoulder. He leans over, lips close to her ear. "Lead the way." There's a flutter low in Bethany's belly, one that has nothing to do with the ale and everything to do with the vibration of his breath on her skin. 

Not for the first time, or the last, she thanks the Maker for her own bedroom.


	15. Interlude: The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a Tumblr prompt - this falls somewhere before "J is for Juxtapose" in the timeline.

Bethany doesn’t think much of Weisshaupt until she finds the library.

Stroud finds here there late in the evening, when the sun has set enough that she’s rummaging around in the corner for a candle. “You missed dinner,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Did I? I suppose I did.” She laughs softly. “I just got distracted. There’s this book -” She gestures at the table behind her, where a giant tome lays open - “that talks about all the theories about elvhen magic prior to the time of Andraste. It’s fascinating - nothing I ever heard about before.”

“I’d guess because the Chantry usually controls the information a person gets about magic.”

Bethany nods. “It’s true. Even what I learned from my father is filtered through the Circle.” 

She believes in the Maker and Andraste. She goes to services whenever she’s near enough to the Chantry. She believes the Maker has a reason for everything, that faith in him will see her through even the toughest times of her Warden life. But the more she travels, the more she learns, she has to wonder if the people who write the Chantry’s history are of the same mind as the prophet they revere. Especially when it comes to magic.

The Warden library has more books on magic than she’s ever seen before - probably more books than any place that isn’t a Circle. She could spend weeks here, if she was only allowed.

Stroud chuckles, handing her a candle from the table next to him. “I’ll ask the kitchen to send you up a plate.”

“Thanks.” 

The shadows start to close in around her, but with the light flickering over the dusty pages, Bethany doesn’t notice at all.


	16. Interlude: Words and Phrases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a romantic diversion before the business of Warden-ing continues with "O." :)

The terms people most often use for relationships are inadequate to explain Bethany’s relationship with Nathaniel. “Boyfriend” is a childish term, and makes her think of Aron, the boy she used to hold hands with during Chantry services in Lothering. He kissed her twice, standing next to the tavern when no one was looking. He’d made her think of farms and babies, of a normal life free of magic. An innocent relationship, for a far more innocent life. 

She’s always considered her relationship with Hendric an affair, with all its connotations of the forbidden. She had been his secret, something his father would have disapproved of - a mage Warden is not really the sort of woman the future ruler of Ansburg should be romancing, not seriously. And Hendric was the type of person who would always take his romances seriously. It was a relationship of stolen moments, afternoons of pleasure followed by long periods of absence, while she went off and did the dirty work Wardens were meant for. Hendric had made her feel clean, like a normal woman, but only for a few hours at a time. He was an escape from her life, but never part of it.

There’s been others over the years, a Warden here, a local there. Some made her scream with pleasure, others made her close her eyes and wish for the whole thing to be over. But none have ever been anything that required a term - they were just men she chose to have sex with. 

Perhaps “lover” is the closest term there is - it feels overly romantic, for two people who spend so much time doing the most thankless work under the sun, but there are moments when it fits. Like this morning, as Bethany wakes up from a rare full night’s sleep. Winter is in full swing, but she’s toasty warm, thanks to Nathaniel’s body curled around hers. He’s still asleep; he never wakes before she does, as he apparently deals with whatever the darkspawn whisper into his brain much better than she does. Today, though, it’s okay, because it gives her the opportunity to revel in the feeling of being pleasantly trapped, his leg thrown over hers, her back pressed against his chest. She remains still for as long as she can, but after a few moments, her limbs begin to protest the hours of inactivity, and she stretches out gently, wiggling until she’s out from under him, but still close enough to feel the heat of his skin at her back. The movement is enough to wake Nathaniel, as usual. 

Here, she supposes, is the difference between Nathaniel and all the other men she’s been with. There’s never been anyone before who knows her body well enough to to send her soaring in such a short amount of time, while only half awake. But when Bethany scoots backward and presses her backside suggestively against him, he tugs her nightshirt up far enough to give him access to her smalls. He slides a leg between her to open her up to him, and his fingers dip below the material and down to the spot that makes her ache in such a pleasant way. 

It’s not just his touch that pleases her - it’s the comfort, the knowledge that after so many months of sharing a bed, they both know exactly what to do to bring the release they want in the short amount of time they have. She knows when it’s time to pull away and kick off her smalls; his Nathaniel’s body covers hers in an instant, and he slides inside her with a practiced ease that makes them both sigh. 

For all the pleasure the sex brings, though, it’s really what comes after that Bethany wishes she had a word for. The brief moments of skin-on-skin contact when he withdraws and lays half on top of her. The way he kisses her just below her ear, his stubble scratching at her skin. But mostly, the way neither of them have to say a word - not until they’re dressed and down in the dining hall with everyone else. She knows that, when she needs to, she can talk to Nathaniel about anything. But right now, she doesn’t need to. Whatever it is she needs from him, she already has it. 

There’s not a word for this relationship, not in Bethany’s experience. Not one she’s ready to apply to herself yet, at any rate. 

But, whatever other word she might come up with, the emotion she feels when Nathaniel is near bears a terrifying resemblance to hope.


	17. O is for Outsider

There’s a town where Lothering once stood. Bethany doesn’t expect that. 

It’s more of a camp than a town, to be honest. Most of the old buildings are now empty shells, with missing roofs and doors and windows. The only two places left mostly intact are the Chantry and a random house just on the other side of the bridge. Someone has turned the house into a surprisingly well-stocked general store. “How do you get your stock?” she asks the proprietor.

“Merchants have started to come by again,” the woman says. “We’re on the way from Redcliffe to South Reach, after all. Once the darkspawn were driven out of town, the merchant caravans had no reason not to stop through here.”

New buildings have popped up in scattered places. They mostly look temporary, though there are a couple of buildings under construction that seem like they’ll be permanent. The woman at the general store tells her it’s been a hard road. “We’ve had straggling darkspawn around here for years. It’s hard to rebuild when you know another band of them will be back at any moment.” The woman shrugs. “But you Wardens have done a good job - they’re coming around less and less now.” 

As she wanders the town, Bethany only recognizes a few people from her old life. 

No one recognizes her.

She finds Errol helping clear some land near the Chantry. Once upon a time, Bethany used to watch him while his parents worked their farm. She remembers playing tag with him in front of his house, laughing and ducking out of the way when his small child’s arms reached for her. He’s taller than she is now, with broad shoulders and a voice teetering on the edge of manhood. Still, she knows him right away, as much as she knows her own name. “Good day, Warden,” he says politely when she approaches. 

Bethany swallows a lump in her throat. “Good day,” is all she says.

“Are there darkspawn here again?” he asks. 

“What?”

“If the Wardens are here, that must mean there are darkspawn. Right?”

He sounds more resigned than frightened. Bethany remembers he used to sound like that when she made him wash his hands before supper. “No,” she says, “not here. We’re on our way to the Wilds.”

“Oh yeah. There are darkspawn down there, for sure. They get up here sometimes, but we’ve gotten good at killing them. Probably not as good as you,” he adds, “but we’re not bad.”

“I’m sure,” she murmurs. Has Errol learned how to handle a sword or a bow, she wonders? Has he spilled darkspawn blood himself? It seems impossible to her - somewhere in her mind, she still thinks of him as the mud-spattered eight-year-old who once shyly handed her a bouquet of wilted flowers, stolen from his neighbor’s garden. That boy played at being a knight, fighting monsters, but she couldn’t imagine him facing down the monsters in real life.

Of course, she couldn’t imagine the Bethany she’d once been facing down the monsters, either. Yet here she was. Older. Harder. Stronger, she hoped. 

She could tell Errol who she is. Could have that reunion, throw her arms around him, tell him how proud she was that he’d survived long enough to become a man. She could ask after his parents, ask how many people from the old Lothering survive. 

But the old Lothering is gone, as is the old Bethany. Bethany the Warden is just passing through. 

“Good luck,” she tells Errol, giving him the sort of respectful nod she figures he might appreciate. He smiles at her, and for a moment, she sees the boy he used to be. She gives him an answering smile. His brows furrow for just a moment, as if he’s trying to place something, but Bethany turns away before she can see whether familiarity follows.

When they ride out of Lothering, Bethany doesn’t look back. She doesn’t think she’ll be coming back here again.


	18. P is for Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Verses from the Canticle of Transfigurations are taken from the codex entries on the Dragon Age wiki.

It’s raining when Bethany comes into the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer. She tries to shake off as much of the damp as possible in the foyer, not wanting to track water and mud into the room. It’s an impossible task, though - she’s been on the road for a day and a half, and hasn’t even yet been back to the Keep. While Nathaniel and Sigrun are resupplying in the merchant’s district, she’s slipped away to take a much needed moment for herself.

Now that she’s based in Amaranthine, Bethany attends services at the Chantry as often as she can. It’s a gorgeous place, full of light and history. There’s an ancient copy of the Chant of Light displayed behind glass in the sanctuary; the Revered Mother tells Bethany that it’s one of the copies Andraste’s original followers hand-lettered himself. Maybe she’s imagining it, but Bethany feels a kind of power when she’s in the presence of the book, a warmth that makes her feel closer to the Maker than she ever has before. 

There’s a service in progress when she enters, though, so she slips in and takes a seat on one of the back benches. The Revered Mother is leading the service, a recitation of the Canticle of Transfigurations. It’s always been her favorite, despite the verse used to justify the Chantry’s treatment of mages. She can’t argue with the verse itself.

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._  
Foul and corrupt are they  
Who have taken His gift  
And turned it against His children. 

She’s seen too many of her fellow mages use their gifts for harm to really blame anyone for their interpretation of Transfigurations. And she likes that it describes magic as “gift” - while she rarely considers her own magic a gift, it’s nice to think that Andraste might have looked upon it more favorably than some of those Bethany has met in her own time. 

There’s another verse in Transfigurations that she holds dear. When the Revered Mother reaches it, she recites along from memory.

_Many are those who wander in sin,_  
Despairing that they are lost forever,  
But the one who repents, who has faith  
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,  
And boasts not, nor gloats  
Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight  
In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know  
The peace of the Maker's benediction. 

_I’m sorry if I haven’t followed Your law_ , Bethany says silently, _in not going to the Circle. I was so afraid of losing my family, of being alone. But that happened anyway, didn’t it? Perhaps Your will is always done in the end, no matter what we try to do._ To some, that sentiment may be disturbing, but Bethany finds comfort in it. 

After the service, she stays seated for a few minutes longer. She says her usual prayers - asking the Maker to watch over her sister, and to show mercy to Bethany herself for the uncharitable, hopeless thoughts that sometimes run through her head. She no longer prays for the strength to accept the life she’s been given; that prayer has been answered. 

The life of a Grey Warden is hard. It’s still not what she would have chosen for herself, had her past given her more options. She’s not fond of the nightmares, or the darkspawn, or the constant threat of injury or death. She doesn’t want to think about what may happen to her in ten or twenty years. But at this moment, she has her life. She has a place to call home. She has a warm bed in which to lay her head, and a man to keep her even warmer. She has friends, food, drink. She has a purpose, something to do with her life that feels important.

Not every day is good. Not even every other day. Tomorrow, she might be haunted by the ghosts of the lost, the family she’ll never see again. Tonight may bring nightmares that make her want to empty the contents of her stomach. Next week, the darkspawn may take one of her friends - or, Maker forbid, someone who is more than a friend - away from her. She has no guarantees, no reason to believe this peaceful moment will last.

But, then, Bethany thinks, all the more reason to savor it now. “Thank you,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. Inside the warmth of the Chantry, she can be grateful. She is alive, and in this moment, that’s good enough.

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._  
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,  
She should see fire and go towards Light.  
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,  
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker  
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword. 


	19. Q is for Quiet

They enter in the Vimmark Mountains, through a door that Bethany recognizes. She feels like she’s accompanied by ghosts as they descend into the Deep Roads. If she turns around, perhaps she’ll see Marian elbowing Anders, or Varric arguing with his brother. Maybe she’ll look down to find herself wearing patched civilian clothing, carrying her father’s old staff. Maybe seven years will disappear in the blink of an eye.

But she turns, and sees Nathaniel and Temmerin conferring with Byron, the Nevarran Warden leading their expedition. She’s covered in Warden blue from head to toe. The years do not melt away.

Bethany has no idea why she doesn’t just tell them. It would be easy. _Hey, guys, you know this Deep Roads map we’re following? I’ve followed it before. It didn’t end well. Not for me._ But maybe that’s why she doesn’t say anything. The last time she followed this path, she ended up a Warden. She’s spent so much time making peace with her fate - but the road to the primeval thaig just takes her back to a time she’d rather forget and a person she no longer is. 

Their path isn’t identical to the one Bethany took back then - Temmerin’s explosives blast through several piles of rock and rubble, cutting at least a week off the journey downward. It helps her pretend, for a while, that she’s simply traveling through some random section of the Deep Roads, on a perfectly normal Warden mission. No memories, no flashbacks. Just dirt and darkspawn and fights that leave her bone-weary. That’s all this mission is - just another trek through the dark. 

But then they come across a familiar-looking passage, and Bethany thinks, _we fought our first batch of darkspawn here. Was this it? Did I contract the taint right here?_ The question haunts her for the rest of the day, until the company is set upon by darkspawn.

There are more darkspawn here now than there were back then; the post-Blight window ended long ago. They fill passages that were once empty enough for her footsteps to echo. But now, the only thing that echoes is Byron’s sword, when he drops it after beheading the last darkspawn in the current fight. She hears no footsteps, and doesn’t know Nathaniel is behind her until he speaks. “Are you all right?”

She turns to face him. “Yes, fine. I stayed out of the melee this time.”

“Good.” Nathaniel doesn’t look convinced, though. “You’ve been really quiet these past few days, you know.”

This would be the time to tell him. _This place brings back bad memories._ “I know,” is all she says, however. 

He frowns, but lets her walk away without comment.

There are so many questions she wants to ask Byron. He says the Wardens came by the map via Bartrand, but Bethany knows that Bartrand has been under Varric’s care for several years. Did they get the map before Bartrand went mad? If so, why has it taken them this long to follow it? And why did they come ask the Wardens of Amaranthine if they didn’t know she’d been in Bartrand’s company? There are Wardens in Weisshaupt with nothing better to do than wait for an expedition like this. At the very least, why not ask the Wardens of Ansburg? Or one of the other posts closer to the Vimmarks? But asking these questions would lead to other questions, ones she isn’t willing to answer just yet.

Why not?

It feels, she supposes, like her own burden to carry. She doesn’t want pity - nor, by the same token, does she want anyone to dismiss her story as unimportant. Her life changed in these tunnels … a girl died, and a new Bethany was born in her place. Perhaps, she thinks, she’s finally paying tribute to the girl she once was. Maybe this is the funeral procession she never had.

Or maybe she’s just being melodramatic about the whole thing. Bethany shakes her head and chuckles softly to herself. Nathaniel looks over and raises an eyebrow, but she waves him off. Melodrama or not, she’s still not ready to talk.

When she lays down to sleep that evening, she can almost see Marian curled up across from her. _It’s all ahead of us_ , the ghost-Marian says. _Our whole lives. When we get out of this hellhole, we’ll have everything we need to really start to live._

Marian was right, Bethany supposes. In her own way.

The Deep Roads are quiet this night, and Bethany drifts off to sleep with the image of her sister - and her own younger self - fading behind her eyelids.


End file.
